


you've got the instruments of pleasure at the end of your sleeves

by airspaniel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gun Kink, Hand Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>As John gets in the car, he carefully does not look at Sherlock's hands, and realizes that he might have a problem.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	you've got the instruments of pleasure at the end of your sleeves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tyleet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to my beta, [](http://drunken-hedghog.livejournal.com/profile)[**drunken_hedghog**](http://drunken-hedghog.livejournal.com/), who saves me from certain doom on a regular basis. Title from the Buzzcocks' "Palm of Your Hand." If you only ever listen to one punk rock anthem about handjobs, it should be that one. I hope you like it, [](http://tyleet27.livejournal.com/profile)[**tyleet27**](http://tyleet27.livejournal.com/)!

There’s a body in the middle of the floor, old blood black like oil spread around its head, and Sherlock is ignoring it entirely in favor of looking at the curtains.

Lestrade shoots a questioning look at John, and John just shrugs. He may not know what Sherlock is doing, but he knows that Sherlock knows what he’s doing, and that’s enough. A glint of light catches his attention, and when he looks back toward the window Sherlock has his magnifier out, arm outstretched to closer inspect the windowframe.

The sunlight silhouettes him in a very cinematic way, and honestly, can the man ever do anything without looking as dramatic as possible? The sleeve of his coat has fallen back, exposing his wrist, elegantly turned out. Like a dancer, perhaps, or a conductor, holding the orchestra in anticipation of his next move.

They’re ridiculous, his wrists. Far too narrow, almost delicate, and the way the line flows from them up his hands, up his long, clever fingers should be feminine, but it’s not. It’s really not.

It takes John a moment to realize that Sherlock has been talking this whole time, telling Lestrade something about the _two_ attackers, and the DI looks surprised. John nods, trying to catch up, and he really should have been paying closer attention.

He gets the gist, enough to come to the inevitable realization that he is likely going to be spending the night out in the cold and damp, skulking on rooftops and chasing Sherlock through the streets of London in a high-stakes hunt for a crew of murderers and thieves.

He is not surprised, therefore, when he finds himself later that evening out in the cold and damp, skulking across rooftops as predicted; tracking the movement of two men in the shadows below them, meeting a third. It isn’t difficult to tell that all three are armed, and none of them are happy.

Sherlock stops short, and John nearly collides with him, shuffles a bit to maintain equilibrium. “Quiet,” Sherlock whispers, harsh, even though he hasn’t said anything; _wouldn’t_ say anything, because John damn well knows better than to compromise his position when behind enemy lines.

Sherlock wraps a hand over his mouth regardless, attention fixed on the men in the alley below, and John sucks in a startled breath.

His skin smells like newsprint, like the faint trace of damp wool from the sleeve of his coat, like _Sherlock_ , right under John’s nose. His fingers, long and clever, cool where they press into John’s cheek, but his palm is warm over John’s mouth. His surprised, still slightly parted mouth.

John has never stood so still, nor breathed so carefully.

After a long moment, Sherlock seems satisfied that he’s not going to make a sound and releases him, hand sliding away with a parting brush of fingertips against his lips. John clamps down on the urge to chase that touch, to sneak the tip of his tongue out and wet his lips, to see if he can taste Sherlock on his skin. He’s not sure what to do with that impulse. Not even sure where it came from.

The conversation below turns heated, and John reaches into his pocket, puts a hand on his pistol for reassurance. Next to him, Sherlock’s thumbs are flying over his mobile, pressing swiftly and near-silently against the keys, sending a message to Lestrade. At least, John hopes it’s to Lestrade. They have the evidence they need, and as much as he loves a bit of excitement, a firefight in Central London is not quite what he had in mind.

A hand wraps around his arm, fingers strong and sharp even through his jacket and jumper, and John lets Sherlock tug him into motion again, follows him across the tar and grit of the rooftop and down the fire escape.

When they are streets away, Sherlock hails a cab, and John can’t stop staring at his hand; at how impossibly pale and bright it is against his coat sleeve, against the rain-slick black of the road. He can still feel it on his arm. Can still feel it on his lips, if he thinks about it; soft and fleeting, fingertips slightly callused from years of playing the violin.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock calls impatiently from the back of the cab. “Are you coming or not?”

As John gets in the car, he carefully does not look at Sherlock’s hands, and realizes that he might have a problem.

\-----

The case was, apparently, entirely dull and unsatisfying, and not at all worth the time spent on it. The following lull hits Sherlock particularly hard, and he seems to take it as a personal insult.

He takes up his violin, plucking his frustration out in angry atonal notes that can in no way be described as music, and John is moments away from throwing something at him when he stops, picks up the bow and stares at it thoughtfully for a moment before beginning to play in earnest.

His left hand curls lovingly around the neck of the instrument, fingertips pressing the strings with unerring precision; while his right pulls the bow slowly, so slowly, back and forth. The music he plays is heavy and strange. Complex and somber and _aching_ , awash with longing and loss.

John doesn’t recognize it. It’s entirely possible that it is a Holmes original, or that Sherlock is simply improvising. He really is quite brilliant. And his hands are so beautiful.

Back and forth the bow rocks, and faster now, music wilder and freer and John licks his lips; shifts slightly in his chair across the room. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and John is grateful for it. The last thing he needs is Sherlock noticing his… _noticing_. Bloody hell.

And just as suddenly the music stops with a cacophonous screech. Sherlock all but drops the violin in favor of flinging himself down on the sofa, landing in a languorous sprawl more befitting a fainting lady in a Victorian romance; one arm stretched up and out over the leather back, fingers spread and slightly clenched and _all right_ , this is getting ridiculous. Time to find something else to do. Something other than obsessing over his flatmate.

Well, parts of him, anyway.

He decides to clean his gun, and sets up at the kitchen table, stripping it with brutal efficiency; because if he has something to do with _his_ hands, maybe he’ll stop thinking about Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hands, which are right now folded against his chest; long, pale fingers steepled at his long, pale throat and _right_. Back to work.

It’s easy, automatic, and the simple familiarity of the movements is soothing. He isn’t thinking about Sherlock’s hands, or any other part of him, as he oils the rails, puts the slide back, runs the action. The pistol is getting a lot more use than he had ever anticipated, living a civilian life in London. It’s good to see it so useful, not moldering away somewhere gathering dust.

There’s probably a metaphor in there, somewhere.

“Hand me my laptop,” Sherlock says suddenly, and John is surprised out of his thoughts. Score one for effective distractions.

“Your laptop,” he repeats, incredulous. “The one on the table next to you, that you wouldn’t even have to _sit up_ to reach.”

Sherlock sighs heavily. “Don’t be difficult, John. Time is of the essence.”

John huffs out a laugh. “Clearly.” He takes his time wiping his hands, though there isn’t much mess; he makes a point of working clean. He isn’t looking, but he can just imagine the placid expression on Sherlock’s face, eyes shut, blissfully ignorant of what a ridiculous request it is; can see his brow furrowing in displeasure, a petulant frown appearing on those lips as John continues to defy him.

John smiles at the thought and looks over, because he can’t resist, but Sherlock isn’t wearing either of those faces. He’s staring at John directly, something serious and strange in his eyes, the faintest hint of a flush staining his cheekbones.

“Sherlock, are you feeling all right?” John asks, concerned. Not that Sherlock needs a fever to act strange and demanding, but better safe than sorry. But Sherlock simply closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the arm of the sofa, face schooled into neutrality so swiftly and smoothly that John is scarcely certain the last look was real.

“John,” he says impatiently, and John rolls his eyes, even as he goes and fetches the laptop. And if he lingers a bit over the way Sherlock’s hand looks reaching out for it, well, he thinks he deserves it. No point in admitting you have a ridiculous obsession unless you indulge from time to time.

But Sherlock doesn’t take the laptop. Instead, he sits up, gazing at John with an expression that could kindly be called speculative, but more accurately makes John feel as if he’s being stripped down to the bone and laid uncomfortably bare under Sherlock’s scrutiny.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sherlock says. “Put it down.”

“I’m not your bloody servant!” John protests, because ridiculous obsession or not, he’s really fucking irritated. He puts the laptop back on the table and is all set to storm off in an angry fashion when Sherlock catches his wrist, pulls him in closer to the sofa, so he’s standing in the V of Sherlock’s open legs.

“What…” he says, attempting to preserve the frustrated tone he had a moment ago and failing miserably. Sherlock pays no attention to it, focused entirely on John’s hand; on bringing it close to his face and _fuck_ , licking up the length of his index finger.

John watches it happen, stunned; doesn’t feel it at first but then, _then_ , his knees threaten to buckle. Sherlock hums thoughtfully and does it again, the wet, pink flat of his tongue curling obscenely around John’s finger, drawing it into his mouth this time so he can run the tip over the edge of John’s nail, flick it against the soft ridges of John’s fingerprint. _Christ_.

“Sh… Sherlock,” John manages. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock releases hiss finger, but keeps his grip tight at John’s wrist, not letting him pull away. “Your gun oil,” he says, voice deep and serious, as if that explains everything. “I wanted to know what it tasted like.”

John’s brain stutters on that, because it just might be most arousing thing he’s ever heard, in a deranged sort of way. “Did you now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock affirms, studying John’s fingers like he’s thinking of putting them in his mouth again. John would not protest this action nearly as much as he suspects he should.

“And what’s the verdict?” he asks, giving himself up to the surreality of the conversation.

“Difficult to ascertain,” says Sherlock. “I’m finding it hard to separate the oil and residue from what I suspect is simply the taste of your skin.”

Oh, _god_. John goes from strangely aroused to painfully hard in the space of a few seconds, and he’s suddenly acutely aware that Sherlock is more or less at eye level with his cock and is _still holding his hand_. He feels dizzy with adrenaline, and his every instinct is screaming what a bad idea this is.

“Do you think about that often?” he hears himself ask, the words gone rough in his throat. “What I taste like.”

And Sherlock… Sherlock _smiles_ ; and it’s small, but it’s _predatory_. “Sometimes,” he admits, sliding his unoccupied hand up John’s thigh. “About as often as you fixate on my hands.”

The panicked moment of _shit, I’m caught_ is quickly subsumed by the rush of heat as Sherlock’s palm presses against him through his jeans, fingertips barely brushing his stomach as they curl at the waistband. John groans and lets his head drop, bracing himself on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Well,” he pants. “Don’t let me stand in the way of, you know, scientific curiosity.”

Sherlock chuckles darkly, flicking the button and zip open with those clever, clever fingers, slipping them through the slit in John’s boxers and _oh_ …

“How generous of you,” Sherlock purrs, and it isn’t fair that he still sounds so composed, Not when John is hard and leaking in his hand, making it slick and it’s not _nearly_ enough. Sherlock turns his head and runs his tongue over John’s index finger again, sucking it into his mouth, all soft, wet heat and careful scrape of teeth, and the tandem sensation is overwhelming until…

 _God_ , until Sherlock lets him go, dragging John’s hand over his cheek, leaving a shiny trail of his own saliva behind as he guides John to bury his hand in his hair. He has a second to parse the feeling of Sherlock’s thick curls sticking to his damp skin, winding through his fingers, but that’s all he gets. Just a second.

Then Sherlock licks a broad wet stripe up the underside of John’s prick, does it again, closes his lips thoughtfully around the tip; the exact same treatment he’d given John’s fingers moments before. John’s hand tightens in his hair, and he can’t stop his hips from bucking forward because _fuck_ , it’s been so long and it’s Sherlock, and his mouth is amazing and it’s _Sherlock_ , and his beautiful, wonderful hand that started this whole ordeal is still touching him, and John is completely unaware that he’s saying this aloud until Sherlock pulls back; presses the fingers of his free hand against John’s lips and smirks indulgently.

“Hush, John,” he instructs, and John shudders. He swipes his tongue over his lips, over Sherlock’s fingertips, and Sherlock pushes two of them into his mouth. It’s perfect, it’s so perfect, and John is so close to being undone.

Sherlock turns his attention back to John’s cock, teasing little licks, little _tastes_ at the slit, longer, softer circles around the head, and then he stops teasing; just slides his lips down in one smooth movement until they’re kissing his fingers, still circled around the base. Then up again, tight and slick and _faster_ , and John is mimicking the motion on Sherlock’s fingers, sucking them desperately, pushing the point of his tongue into the space between them. He can hear himself keening, can’t quite stop it, can’t quite control anything about this; only hold harder and try not to fall as the world whites out.

Orgasm hits him like a blow to the back of the head, and Sherlock keeps him upright, keeps him steady as he swallows, unexpectedly gentle in the wake of… in the wake of _that_. John pants harshly through his nose, unwilling to let go of Sherlock’s fingers just yet.

And Sherlock licks him clean, tongue on too-sensitive skin making John hiss, then pulls away, sliding his hand free of John’s mouth. His fingers bear a tell-tale arc of teethmarks where John must have bitten down, and John strokes his hair back in apology.

“Hmm,” mumbles Sherlock, sounding distinctly displeased, and that’s so, so very wrong. John doesn’t like that at all.

“What is it?” he asks, still breathless, tilting Sherlock’s face up so they can look at each other. Sherlock’s lips are red and swollen (and John can feel his dick twitch half-heartedly remembering how they got that way), but his brow is furrowed slightly.

“The results of this experiment are entirely inconclusive,” Sherlock says, but John doesn’t miss the way his expression softens, the wicked glint of mischief in his eyes.

John looks as grave as he can manage, which is not terribly. “Oh, dear.”

“There’s nothing to be done, I’m afraid. We’ll simply have to do it again.” Sherlock’s voice is very serious indeed, and his hands - his damned gorgeous hands - wrap around John’s hips in a way that suggests he would like to continue this experiment as soon as possible.

“What a shame,” says John, already looking forward to it.


End file.
